He tells me he’s a climber, so I ask, of ladders? No, he says, of trees, and now, instead of him, it’s me, I see, pulling branches over fingers to reach the top of giant maples and knotty elms in the woods on Sunday mornings, when everyone else is off to church, and I alone, in the quiet of a wooden perch, watch the horizon of forever
— for Open Write (memory poem) https://www.ethicalela.com/finding-yourself-again-a-memory-poem/